Our object, however—publish it not in Askalon—was not so much to admire the charms of Nature as to enjoy the luxury of a real Havannah cigar in solitary comfort; and a glorious perch we had selected. The shade was grateful beyond measure. The fresh breeze was rushing, almost roaring, through the leaves and groaning branches, and everything around was green, and fragrant, and cool, and delicious—by comparison, that is, for the thermometer would, I daresay, have still vouched for eighty degrees. The branches overhead were alive with a variety of beautiful lizards and birds of the gayest plumage; amongst others, a score of small chattering green paroquets were hopping close to us, and playing at bo-peep from the lower surfaces of the leaves of the wild pine (a sort of Brobdignag parasite that grows like the mistletoe in the clefts of the large trees), to which they clung, as green and shining as the leaves themselves, and ever and anon popping their little heads over to peer at us; while the red-breasted woodpecker kept drumming on every hollow part of the bark for all the world like old Kelson, the carpenter of the _Torch_, tapping along the top-sides for the dry rot. All around us the men were lounging about in the shade and sprawling on the grass in their foraging caps and light jackets, with an officer here and there lying reading, or sauntering. about, bearding Phœbus himself, to watch for a shot at a swallow as it skimmed past; while goats and horses, sheep and cattle were browsing the fresh grass, or sheltering themselves from the heat beneath the trees.... “At length the forenoon wore away, and the bugles sounded for dinner, when we adjourned to the mess-room.”